


maybe january will consume my heart with its cruel ray

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Documentary AU, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Is that a thing, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Transgender, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:49:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire really should have stayed, and probably died, in the fucking Serengeti.</p><p>OR </p><p>Making documentaries is not the best way to create a steady income, so Grantaire basically decides to redeem a school by creating a documentary on the bravery and progress of a small college town in the aftermath of a hate crime. What he gets instead is a fucking web of lies, which only leads him deeper into the dark untested waters of giving a shit about a few bratty kids who want justice in a world he has given up on. It's really touching. Available on DVD March 5TH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i do not love you except because i love you

**Author's Note:**

> Just some of my personal face claims. Grantaire is indeed a POC (Moroccan) and he speaks French.  
> Grantaire: Adam Bakri  
> Marius: Matthias Schweighöfer  
> Javert: lmao all I can think of now is Russell Crowe  
> Jean Valjean: Sidney Poitier  
> Enjolras: Paul Boche

**_._ **

_D. Grantaire is a renowned film maker with a penchant for nail biting documentaries. The young Moroccan based documentarian rose quickly to the spotlight after the release of his 2012 film_ ‘Serengeti Scar’ _, which takes a harsh look at poaching in Tanzania’s incredible Serengeti National Park. While we’ve all shed a tear or two for poaching documentaries, Grantaire’s film may be the_ first _one to directly blame the post-colonialism that still lingers in the East African country for the poverty and desperation of the Tanzanian people who poach to survive. While called cynical and depressive by some, it is hard to miss the intimacy Grantaire provides his interviewees, the tenderness he has for the common man. Grantaire portrays both man and nature in a balanced, fair view while adding quite snarky commentary between interviews, especially after he talks to North American officials teaming up with Tanzanian park rangers, seemingly with an ulterior motive._ Serengeti Scar _was the best pick for the 2012 Cannes Film Festival, and garnered another Academy Award Nomination._

_Critics world wide praise his scathing and neo-realist attitude for shining a harsh light on the biggest issues of the 21 st century. With nearly twelve Oscar nominations under his belt, it makes one wonder why Grantaire hasn’t snagged at least one. In the words of the man himself, one can’t help but ponder if the award’s board is “really just a glorified way of preserving the massive American ego, and subtly kicking anything under the table if it pushes the mainstream envelope of modern activism.”_

_However, D. Grantaire has not produced a new film since Serengeti Scar. Rumours of a new film, one based in Maine, has the online community buzzing. If Grantaire’s new film will be anything like his last one, the world perhaps may not be ready._

_Andrea Polansky, New York Times. ”_

“Is neo-realist even a word?” Marius props his feet on the couch as he scrolls through his iPad, reading out loud the newest article about Grantaire. Grantaire walks in with a glass of water, sitting next to him.

“I’m more concerned about the rumours? What fucking rumours? I haven’t even picked a topic yet,”

Marius adopts a sheepish look and refuses to meet his eye. Grantaire suddenly has a really shitty feeling sinking into his stomach.

“Look Grantaire...” Marius places his palms on his knees, scratching at the denim. “It’s been two whole years, and Mr. Valjean really needs some more funding to keep the company going. You know that, don’t you?”

“I thought I made it very clear to Valjean and to you that I needed those years _off_ , Marius,”

Marius gulps, bobbing his throat like he’s a fucking cartoon. Grantaire can feel his irritation rising, so he leans back into couch and pinches the bridge of his nose. What’s worse, his fingers start twitching like it’s their personal job to remind him he’s in withdrawal.

And of course Valjean walks in, closing the door like he has a personal grudge with it. He settles on the bed and starts pulling off his shoes.

An uneasy silence fills the room as Marius looks between his angry boss and his angry partner.

“So, Mr. Valjean...” Marius sounds skittish, drumming his fingers against the arm rest. “Did you have a good talk with the University?”

 _University?_ Grantaire can barely keep his mouth from hanging open, but Marius holds his hand in a vice grip.

“Yes, Marius, I did,” Valjean finally stops his assault on his socks and meets both of them in their eyes. “Dean Javert was willing to make some compromises, and I believe we have an agreement,”

Valjean looks at Grantaire, rather more Grantaire’s twitching fingers devoid of any cigarette or bottle.

“You’re doing better today, Grantaire,” Valjean’s kind eyes hold no judgement as they meet Grantaire’s.

He’s not going to fall for it.

“Stop trying to butter me up, Valjean. What’s going on?”

Valjean pulls out a long piece of paper, full of shit Grantaire will never read. Handing it over, Grantaire sees his boss has already taken full liberty and signed the first half.

“A film on the Student Union?” Grantaire is going to have a hard time finding his eyebrows, seeing as they’ve practically disappeared from his head.

“Not just the Student Union, Grantaire. Think of the possibilities. You could explore the capitalization of education, the overwhelming patriarchy bearing on student policies like dress codes, and the contrast of traditional values with what today’s student needs,”

“Isn’t this Vinton University? Where those, you know, hate crimes happened last year,”

“Exactly!” pipes up Marius, who should not look as excited as he does. “That’s what we’re going to investigate,”

Grantaire takes a big deep breath, and immediately tries to fucking drop dead. When it’s clear neither Valjean nor Marius are prepared to bury him, he exhales.

“Let me get this straight,” Grantaire feels hysteria bubbling in his throat. “You want me explore how a university capitalizes on its students against the backdrop of modern homophobia so that _you_ and the university can capitalize on the revenue this film will generate,”

Valjean at least has the decency to look ashamed. “Dean Javert isn’t doing this for the money. He needs his school reputation back up, and I need to repay a personal favour,”

“And _I_ ,” Grantaire spreads his arms wide. “I need to ask bratty uni kids about a traumatic event so I can pay for the next utility bill. Got it,”

Valjean sighs deeply, wrinkles gathering on his forehead like a congregation of all his troubles. “I wish you would see it my way, Grantaire. It’s a way for the students to cope,”

“It’s a way to terrorize the gay kids even further, and pat the cookie grabbing allies on the back of the head for not killing someone. No one is going to cope,” He fishes a pen out of his pockets.

Angrily, Grantaire signs the document. He knew from the second Valjean walked in there was no way to back out without being kicked to the streets.

“The first meeting is at 10:00 AM, don’t forget,”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Grantaire snaps, already heading into the shower.

**_._ **

Grantaire is used to pushing university brats on the subway. The conglomerate of stuffed backpacks and general despair is enough to make him walk halfway across the platform to find a semi-empty car. Once he settles in, Grantaire barely has time to catch his breath before his phone starts buzzing.

“Pontmercy,” he grumbles, glaring at the screen. Grantaire has a few good years on the kid, and even he knows texting is more inconspicuous than making a damn phone call.

“Hi Grantaire!” It should be illegal to be so chipper at ass o’clock in the morning. Grantaire just grunts back, trying to close his eyes while the train shakes its way forward.

“Tell me again why you aren’t on the train with me?”

“I have to take my car for all the video equipment, Grantaire. I would have taken you if I could,” Marius sounds sincerely apologetic, but Grantaire wouldn’t put it past the kid to run a vindictive streak and take in the leather seats all for himself.

The train announces the next station, and suddenly a throng of students push in, some having their bags caught in the doors before literally ripping at the seams to get inside the car. Amongst the chaos, the driver strains to be heard over the intercom, half-heartedly asking people to wait for the next train that comes in five minutes. No one really listens, and Grantaire can hardly blame them. People are creatures of habit, and it’s a social norm to ignore pseudo-authority either way.

Grantaire is squished between two excited freshmen as he struggles to find a place to breathe in the car. The train pushes everyone around like a bully, and Grantaire barely keeps from sliding half way across car. Others aren’t so lucky, and several students succumb to the weight of their bags and tumble.

Finally, thank God, the train rumbles to a stop by Vinton Station, and Grantaire pushes out from the mass of passengers. The morning rush spills onto the concrete, people bundling their coats against the sudden bite of wind.

It’s hard to ignore the university, looming over the silver concrete with ornate precision. Brownstone covers the preliminary floor like a scab, and two stone lions roar in eternity at the front gates. Although Grantaire hates the idea of university on principle, it’s hard not to be overwhelmed by richness and elegance the school commands.

As students pour in, Grantaire strains his neck to find Marius with his mop of dark hair. Big backpacks hurry past him, striking none too lightly when Grantaire starts to create his own little island against the front doors. Marius eventually appears, wading through the crowd with his own lump bag, albeit filled with some unorthodox school supplies. Together they walk through the large oak doors, immediately greeted by volunteers dressed in bright red.

“Hey there, freshie!”  One girl swishes her ponytail right into Grantaire’s face as she hands Marius a pamphlet. She ushers them towards the throng of nervous kids congregating by the lobby.

Grantaire remembers those neurotic volunteers, with their tight schedules and fake smiles. He holds on to her arm, firm but non-threatening. Marius is tethered to his other arm, nearly lost among the students.

“We’re not students...,” Grantaire makes a show of looking at the nametag pinned to her lapel. “... Ashley. We’re here for the documentary on your student union. Bacchus Films?”

Her lips thin. “Oh,” It’s clear she’s heard about them before. “I’ll take you guys to the Dean,”

Ashley hands the remaining pamphlets to another bright faced volunteer, and makes a sharp turn to the right.

Grantaire trails after, still holding tightly onto Marius. The kid looks like he’s seconds away from a panic attack, face flushed and hands clammy with sweat. It would be gross if Grantaire didn’t have a soft spot for the kid.

They walk through hardwood floors, and Grantaire immediately feels underdressed in his ratty sneakers and sweatshirt. The architecture is gothic, all sharp edges and a general sense of importance permeating from the regal curve of the staircase.

“It’s pretty rude of you guys to make a documentary on such a tragic event, so soon. I don’t recall any news station being on our backs like vultures,” remarks Ashley, glancing at Grantaire.

“Well, Ashley,” Grantaire sweetens his voice until it’s thick with condescension. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion,”

Marius muffles a snicker with his arm, and Ashley’s ears begin to expel steam. Grantaire stretches, already done with this girl.

After walking for what seemed like a solid ten minutes, Ashley finally knocks on a tall door. Despite the aging architecture, the interior is modern, with security cameras smoothly tracking their every move. Through the glass pane, Grantaire can see a figure leaning back, presumably on a chair.

“Come in,” welcomes a low voice. Ashley opens the door, walking in first and not bothering to hold the door open for Grantaire. Marius tugs away from Grantaire’s grip, and they both shuffle in after Ashley.

The door closes with a soft click.  Grantaire feels seven years old again, hands behind his back and apprehension burning a hole in his chest.

“Bacchus films,” Ashley spits as an introduction, not bothering to meet the Dean’s eyes. “Did you approve of this?”

The man leans forward, long fingers straightening the plaque on his desk. _Dean Javert_ it reads, immaculate in its position. Steepling his fingers, the dean works his greyed jaw for a moment.

“I don’t think it matters to you, Ms. Clark,”

Grantaire is starting to think Ashley is more than just a student volunteer. Money seems to be flowing from every pore on her body. Ashley leans forward, palms flat on the polished oak. “I think it does, Dean. I thought we had an agreement here -” She halts, seemingly noticing Grantaire and Marius’ presence in the room.

Javert takes the opportunity to send her away.

“Ashley, could you please show Mr. Pontmercy his accommodations,” Marius rises, looking worriedly at Grantaire.

She exhales loudly, bringing her palms back against her thighs. “I trust you’ll fix this, Dean,”

Ashley nods once at Grantaire, as if she has already made up her mind about him. “Follow me,” she tells Marius. Closing the door softly, it’s an understatement to the barely contained rage she had a few moments earlier.

The Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please sit,” he gestures to the plush chairs opposite his own. Grantaire settles in the soft upholstery.

“I apologize for that,” Javert gives them a tight smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His look is expectant, roving over Grantaire for reassurance. He finds none.

“Dean Javert,” he extends a hand, and Grantaire grasps it firmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Grantaire,”

“All good, I hope,” A mirthless laugh escapes out of necessity. Javert’s echoing laugh is none less sincere. They unclasp hands.

“I assume Valjean has already told you about the content of your film. I must reinforce, however, it is for students, so I would refrain from profanity and excessive social commentary. This film has a purpose, you see,”

Again, the hysteria begins rising in Grantaire’s throat. “Excuse me?”

“You have incredible talent, Grantaire. It could serve us well here,”

“This is a documentary, Dean. Not a _commercial_ ,” Grantaire’s voice starts wavering out of its careful control. Throat itching, he craves the burn of alchohol.

“I’m quite aware. However, you tend to take your creative liberties too far. I just want the film to be... appropriate for students,”

“You want me to lie,”

Javert doesn’t meet his eyes.

Grantaire scoffs, dry and cold. Valjean has really outdone himself in screwing Grantaire over.

“I don’t believe you’re in a position to refuse my proposal,” Javert leans forward, again. “Seeing as you’ve wasted all your income from the poaching movie,”

“Charity is not a waste, Dean,”

“It is to those who haven’t seen more than a penny their whole lives,”

“Your classism is astounding, Javert. I wonder why they made you Dean in such a low-income neighbourhood,”

Javert looks at him coldly. There is steel in his grey eyes, unbending. “I have worked hard for my position here. You would do well not to insult hard work, or to encourage handouts to the lazy," 

Grantaire wants to scream. Grantaire wants to write a ten page essay on why the Dean is wrong.

"Also," Javert adopts a smug look. "If you need assistance in paying for this production, the university will be more than happy to help,"

In the end, Grantaire sighs, because if he hates anything more than Javert’s prejudice, it’s his own reluctance over calling him out. He’s a coward, terrified and useless by a man in a fancy suit.Basically, Grantaire is a piece of shit, and he’s running out of money, and when was the last time Marius had a trip home? When was the last time Grantaire had enough food in the fucking fridge?

So he forces a smile and extends the metaphorical hand of compromise. “Agree to disagree, Dean?”

“Of course,” Javert is all smiles. “I’ll introduce you to the Union myself,”

.


	2. brown and agile child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smackdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more face claims-
> 
> Combeferre: (young) Eddie Spears  
> Courfeyrac: Alfred Enoch

.

Grantaire is aware that student unions are a breeding ground for young politicians, especially those with deep pockets and absolutely no responsibility. As he walks into the room, Grantaire isn’t sure what to expect.

Bright lights hang from the ceiling, reflecting off the muted blue of the floor. Aqua, Grantaire thinks. Or perhaps azure. For some reason, a bright purple table centres the room. Otherwise, their meeting room is spacious, with soft chairs and a few ferns lining the back window. A coffee machine rests in the corner, a fresh pot steaming.

Grantaire hates coffee.

“We’re a bit early, Grantaire. Make yourself comfortable,” Javert himself settles in the leather couch.

“Will Marius be able to find his way here?” Grantaire knows Marius could not work with a map if his life depended on it.

“Of course. I’ve already told Ashley about how she must handle Mr. Pontmercy,” The way Javert says ‘handle’ sends a burst of uneasiness down Grantaire’s spine.

Silence reigns, and Grantaire stares at a crack in the ceiling. Ugly plaster threatens to spill from it, dry and splitting at the ends.

Javert clears his throat. “Grantaire, do you speak French?”

Grantaire is taken aback. No one ever asks him such questions, perhaps because they never have to. He knows what he looks like, all tawny skin and bright eyes. Certainly not the average Francophone. His accent is foreign, but Grantaire can manage English well enough to converse with the average American.

“Yes, I do. May I ask why?” The formalities are a joke. It’s all he can do not to replay their previous conversation in his mind.

“You see, Grantaire, many of the students here are, what’s the word, _la Francophonie_. It’s quite an identity they’ve created for themselves,”

The _Francophonie_ identity in America goes back to the colonial times of the 1800’s, he wants to argue. Any Francophones in the university would only be practising their culture. Any person living in the area should know that, at least the Dean should know that about his own students.

But, semantics. Grantaire can’t afford to argue with Javert, especially when he can’t even afford anything, period.

“I see,” he chokes out, trying to look like he cares. “It would be nice to speak with them in French,”

“Exactly my point,” Javert’s mouth twists, almost like he’s trying to smile. It’s horrendous. “If you can empathize with them, it would be much easier to have them say the right things,”

Javert may as well have ‘corruption’ tattooed on his forehead. Grantaire clenches his fist, discreetly, and tries not to punch himself in the fucking face. Every time Javert spouts some Baby Boomer-esque philosophical bullshit, Grantaire makes a mental tally of how many time’s he’d had dysentery in Tanzania. Sort of like an anti-drinking game.

Finally, thank fuck, the clock strikes ten. The door swings open, and suddenly a small group of ten or more students march into the room. All of them swing heavy messenger bags onto the table.

A young boy walks right up to the couch where Javert and Grantaire are sitting.

 “Mr. Javert, what brings you here?” As Javert explains the documentary, Grantaire takes the opportunity to examine the student in front of him.

Tall, with sharp cheekbones protruding from his face, Grantaire assumes he must be at least twenty one. Blond hair falls into his eyes, and the boy tucks it behind his ears with great irritation. As the boy talks, his frustration mounts, and his thin hands move erratically, sometimes forming fists, other times palms up, like he could make the stubborn mule of a man understand.

“ _Monsieur,_ we’ve already told you it’s very difficult to incorporate a film crew into our meetings!”

“Hold up,” Grantaire interjects, having to cut short the good time he was having counting the veins in Javert’s neck pop, one by one, like kernels of corn.

Javert and the boy both stop arguing to look at him. Out of his peripheral, Grantaire sees the heads of the other students rising.

“There’s no goddamn film crew, kid. It’s me and my camera man, Marius,”

The kid’s jaw clenches, probably at being called a kid. Grantaire could be stuffed with laxatives, and still be unable to give a single shit.

“And you are?” Grantaire groans audibly. Who says ‘and you are’ in the twenty first century? Honestly?

“D. Grantaire from Bacchus films,” It’s standard procedure, almost like his verbal ID.

The boy looks at him coolly, the complete opposite of Ashley’s heated glare. His gaze never wavers. Grantaire feels his patient waning, his hands itching, brain screaming.

“Mr. Javert,” Grantaire turns his eyes to the Dean caught in the fray. “I was led to believe all parties were quite willing to participate in this film. Perhaps we were unclear on the terms of our agreement,”

Javert pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enjolras, must we debate this now? You agreed to this film merely a week before,”

“That was before I found out you were wasting precious school funding on a film, Dean. I cannot support a project that is rotten to its core,” The boy, Enjolras, scans his eyes over Grantaire.

He is an idiot, Grantaire decides. Knowing nothing of his predicament, nothing of true corruption, this child is trying to frame Grantaire as a villain.

“Listen here, Enjolras,” Javert rises, pulling himself to his full height against the boy. “You have signed the contract, and you cannot break it. Grantaire will be filming for a few months, and then he will leave. Surely you can tolerate such inconvenience,”

“Dean! I-” Another boy places a warning hand on his shoulder. Grantaire observes their dynamic, how the touch minimizes Enjolras’ fury by a mere fraction.

“ _Calmez-vous, ami._ I’ll handle this,” Grantaire sees the boy murmur softly by Enjolras’ ear. Dark skinned and tall, the boy looks like he belongs in a library, not a student union.

Enjolras fumes, reddening under Javert’s harsh orders. Eyes darting between his Grantaire and Javert, he steps back.

The other boy pushes up the glasses perched on his nose. “Mr. Javert, could we reach some sort of compromise? It really does nothing to help the school reputation if the funding does not reach the students,”

Grantaire can’t hold himself back. “School reputation?” he barks, startling the boy. “Your school reputation is in the gutter! _Merde_!”

Javert makes a protesting noise in his throat, but it dies as Enjolras speaks again.

“Making a film, of all things, is not what will help our school rise above the problem!” he cries, shrugging out of his friend’s grip. “We cannot lie about what has happened just to look good for the cameras!”

“So you’ll conceal it instead? Some sort of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy you have in this union, garçon?” Grantaire can see his words burrowing uncomfortably under the boy’s skin.

“Excuse me?”  

“You’re excused, Enjolras,” Javert starts walking towards the door. “This conversation is over. If you’d like to continue, you’d be more than welcome in my office, with your father,”

Javert reaches for the door knob, and before he leaves, he turns his head. “Oh, and Grantaire? If there is a problem, do tell me. I would like to make your stay here as comfortable as possible,” With a smile as slick as car grease, the Dean slips out of the room.

Uncomfortable silence permeates the room, as Grantaire and the boy participate in a very interesting staring contest. Before Grantaire is about to lose and blink some moisture into his eyes, a sharp knock on the door saves him. Enter Marius, looking flustered and terrified as Javert shoulders past him.

“Um,” Eloquence was lost on poor Marius. “Is everything alright?”

Surprisingly, it is Enjolras who speaks first. “Yes, it’s fine. Are you the camera man?”

Marius nods.

 “Well, I guess we must press on, regardless of the new addition,” At this, Enjolras sends a surly look towards Grantaire. Grantaire fights the urge to stick out his tongue.

“Quite right,” says the bookish boy, pushing his large glasses up his nose. “Please have a seat, _Monsieur_ ,”

“Call me Grantaire,” Grantaire sends an easy smile towards him and the rest of the students. No reason this Enjolras should come in the way of his progress.

.

Twenty minutes into the meeting, and Grantaire is already bored. Having set up Marius’ tripod ages ago, all he can do is push dirt out of his fingernails and sigh heavily.

After one particularly melancholy exhale, Enjolras turns to him. The motion is so swift Marius nearly drops the camera in his attempt to capture the action.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Grantaire?” His name flows like water off the boy’s lips.

“Well,” Grantaire props himself up, cracking several of his bones that have gone sedentary. “Your ramblings were great fodder for my nap, but reality has woken me like a cold, cold mistress. She wishes that you would face her,”

A few misplaced snickers can be heard as Enjolras reddens, the tips of his elfin ears almost purple with blood.

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire can almost see genuine curiosity under the anger.

“All this ranting, all this call to action, it’s worthless. You do not implement what you preach,”

Enjolras raises a thin brow. “I am not a hypocrite, Grantaire,”

Grantaire snorts, an ugly sound ripped from him. It could sound worse, he reasons. He could be rip-roaringly drunk.

He’s not drunk, sadly. Mind tired but alert, there’s no intoxicated haze to stop him from speaking. Not that liquor has ever stopped Grantaire from giving anyone a piece of his mind, but it is all done in good humour. It’s meant to be shrugged off, ignored. Grantaire is meant to be shrugged off and ignored.

But now, with Enjolras’ sharp eyes on him, with all these innocents staring at him like he’s the devil, a dull flame rises in his heart. _I want to be heard_ , realizes Grantaire. _I want to be seen_.

With a scratched voice and day old stubble, Grantaire proceeds to speak. Arms at his side, it feels wrong to be so still when every nerve in his body is tingling, every muscle screaming.

“Hypocrite is the best word for you,” Grantaire smiles. “If I looked up hypocrite, I would see your privileged face staring right back at me,”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest, but Grantaire cannot stop himself. He barrels on.

“You ask for equal representation, but you don’t give it. Look at these students,” Grantaire gestures to a small window where groups of students walk towards their classes.

“Sixty seven percent of your school population is African-American. Fifty two percent are female. Nearly three quarters of students are depending on scholarships and student loans to get by. You say representation matters, but not to you! Look at your own group, Enjolras!”

Grantaire watches with grim satisfaction as realization dawns on the young man’s face. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Marius zooming in on Enjolras’ stunned expression. Unable to control the emotion flowing through him, Grantaire’s hands rise of their own accord

“The majority of your union is privileged beyond belief. More than half of your ten members are white, and there are absolutely no women in this group whatsoever. You all reek of trust funds and job security,”

“And...,” Grantaire leans in close to Enjolras, whose clear glare never wavers from his light blue eyes. From here Grantaire can see errant curls sticking to the back of Enjolras’ neck, the flush that never leaves his pale skin.

 “You know that Dean you claim to resent so much? At least he provided financial compensation for the victim of the hate crime. I know for a fact this student union has not even attempted to contact the victim, not even for the sake of simple solidarity and support,”  

Enjolras’ jaw drops wide open (figuratively speaking, in all honesty Grantaire sees his lips part and eyes widen, as if he’d been shot.) Other members of the group share a collective, albeit melodramatic, gasp.

With that, Grantaire drops his arms, a finished conductor. “I need a fucking smoke,” he exclaims, fishing a cigarette from his torn hoodie. Marius looks up from the camera, eyes wide as they track him out of the room.

Once Grantaire has stepped out into the freezing cold, he regrets not bringing the coat slung over his spot on the couch. It would be a waste to go back in, especially when Grantaire had the privilege of hearing Enjolras mutter “He’s right,” in a small, stunned voice.

Crisp October air fills his head, calming his nerves. Grantaire holds the cigarette in his hand, between his pointer and middle fingers, but he never lights it. Like a promise he could never keep, Grantaire stuffs the unlit cigarette back into his pocket.

What he really came for was the cold, which soothed the heated glare Grantaire could feel through the open window. Enjolras was there, that was for sure, lasers shooting at Grantaire’s neck as he fumed inside.

“You are an ingrate, Enjolras,” Grantaire mutters to himself. He didn’t dare to say it to the boy’s face, not yet. Not yet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's very important to remember that Les Amis were mainly a privileged group of men fighting for the underprivileged. That's problematic.


	3. calamus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly: Harmony Santana  
> Lamarque: Jack Gilford

.

Saturday morning finds Grantaire sprawled in bed, snoring loudly. A blizzard howls outside, making the tiny apartment quiver in its bearings.

Between the dim states of consciousness and sleep, faintly Grantaire could tell someone was trying to wake him.

“Grantaire, Grantaire!” Marius shakes him, none too lightly. “He’s here to see you,”

 _5:30_ reads the alarm clock, bright and angry. Grantaire shuts his eyes against the light.

“Who the fuck is here at five in the morning, Marius?”

“I am,” says a clear voice. Speak of the fucking devil. Grantaire cracks an eye open, fighting against the sudden desire to bury himself under his pillows. But no, Grantaire is a _responsible adult_ and he has to act like it.That bratty kid from yesterday, Enjolras, is standing in his bedroom. Immaculate as always, the kid has his hair brushed and coat fastened all nice and proper. Cheeks flushed from the cold, he looks like a cherub.

“I’m a morning person,” Enjolras offers by way of explanation, and pushes a brown paper bag towards Grantaire. It smells like donuts.

“That doesn’t make me like you,” Grantaire’s mouth tastes like garbage, and crust the size of an iceberg formed around his eyes.

Enjolras is offended too easily, and Grantaire enjoys watching the youth squirm under his negative energy. Grantaire takes the bag and wakes to the tiny kitchen, setting it down on the counter. Padding off to the washroom, he brushes his teeth and splashes brutally cold tap water on his face. The end result wakes him up, sure, but leaves him feeling grumpy. Stubble is thick around his jaw and neck, but Grantaire scoffs at the notion of shaving for a college kid.

When he comes back, Marius and Enjolras have taken to lounging on the dilapidated couch. Marius is hidden behind his clunky camera, while Enjolras explains something passionately, looking directly into the aperture.

Grantaire leans against the door frame, trying to rest his eyes before the inevitable bullshit he’ll have to endure from the brat.

“Good morning, Grantaire!” Marius turns the camera on him. “Enjolras has something to say to you,”

Grantaire snorts. “If you came here for a rematch, I don’t have the time or patience, kiddo,”

Enjolras shakes his head, and looks straight at Grantaire. His eyes are very blue, very clear.

“I didn’t come here to fight you, _monsieur._ I want to apologize for my behaviour last day,”

Never has Grantaire heard the boy call anyone _monsieur_ out of respect. Grantaire feels his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Who sent you?” he demands.

Enjolras at least has the decency to look ashamed. He opens his mouth a few times, working his jaw. “Combeferre,” he admits. “But that’s not the point!”

Grantaire raises a brow. He doesn’t know who the hell Combeferre is, but Grantaire has a strange feeling it was the librarian boy from yesterday.

“What is the point, then? Am I supposed to believe there’s an actual purpose to you coming here for any other reason than to disturb my sleep?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “You were right about what you said yesterday. I was- I am a hypocrite,”

Grantaire just stares back at him, taking in the preppy coat and polished shoes. There’s no way a boy as white and rich as Enjolras could ever understand his own hubris.

“I know what you’re thinking, Grantaire. But I can do much better, I know I can,”

All this optimism is going to make him sick. Grantaire shifts his weight, tries not to collapse against the doors.

“Words mean nothing,” Grantaire says, and he can see a frown pulling on Enjolras’ face. Hurriedly, he continues speaking. “Who are you trying to convince?”

And for some godforsaken reason, Enjolras take his words as a challenge. A slight grin, soft and genuine, twists his features into something younger, happier.

“I want to convince you,”

Marius makes a muffled noise behind the camera, snapping Enjolras out of his reverie. Enjolras moves to the door and Grantaire nearly misses him as he tries to contain the flush of his cheeks.

“Wait,” calls out Marius, eyes wild. “Have breakfast with us, Enjolras. We could use the company,”

Enjolras looks between Grantaire and Marius, almost unsure. Grantaire nods, because there was never really an option of sending Enjolras back into the cold.

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, and for once, he means it.

.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, for the first few minutes. Grantaire pours out milk and cereal and they all clink spoons as the wind howls outside. Enjolras looks mildly uncomfortable in his trench coat, but he eats his Lucky Charms with surprising gusto.

The bag of donuts are empty the second Marius gets his hands on them.

“I don’t believe it,” mutters Grantaire. Marius stops chewing, powder on his face.

Enjolras cocks his head. “What don’t you believe?”

“I don’t believe you would come all the way here just to say sorry,” Grantaire sets his bowl down. “What do you want from me?”

“What, I can’t simply apologize when I’m wrong?”

“No, you can’t. If you did, that would make me believe in something idiotic, like maybe the inherent goodness of man,”

Enjolras clenches his jaw, spoon hanging forlorn between his fingers. Grantaire tracks the twitch under his brow. Ah, Rousseau. He’s hit a nerve.

“You don’t believe in anything, do you Grantaire?”

“No,” Grantaire feels a very small ache in his chest. “I don’t,”

It’s as simple as that. He hopes Enjolras will pass him off as a pessimistic fool and leave.

“Why did you donate all your money?”

Grantaire clenches his jaw. “You’ve read my Wikipedia page? You ought to know that Marius was the one who wrote it,”

“Marius is an honest man,” says Enjolras. Marius the honest man averts his gaze behind his bowl of cereal.

“You’ve known him for less than a day, Enjolras. How can you be so sure?”

“Don’t change the subject,”

Enjolras glares at him, eyes like knives. If looks could kill, Grantaire would probably be reincarnating or something.

“It’s none of your business where my finances go,”

Something warm and soft stirs in Enjolras’ eyes. It makes him look like a madman.

“I saw the village you were in, Grantaire. They’ve built a school, and I heard the poaching in the area has gone down. Children are getting educations, women are creating businesses that sustain their entire family. What are you ashamed of?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “I am not ashamed of anything. But giving people money, doing the ‘right thing’ shouldn’t warrant any praise. I don’t need an award for doing things I should have been doing all along,”

“You don’t make any sense, Grantaire. How can you act with all this righteousness and then mock me for trying to do the same?”

“I’m not mocking you, Enjolras. But you have to understand that even the simplest kindness is inherently selfish. Your presence in the student union is only for you,”

“It’s not just for me!” exclaims Enjolras. “I’ve dedicated my life to the cause,”

“That’s very noble,” Grantaire drinks the rest of his milk from the bowl. “But unless you are underprivileged in a way I haven’t seen, your efforts are self-gratifying,”

Enjolras scowls. “Only the underprivileged can fight for rights, then? Is there nothing for solidarity? Ally-ship? ”

“Anyone can fight,” Grantaire says to the boy. “But only a few know for what cause,”

Grantaire picks at his threadbare shirt. Enjolras is quiet, staring into his bowl of Lucky Charms.

“You’re a cynic. You’re not happy with anything because your sight is tainted,”

“Happiness is a learned concept,” Grantaire puts his bowl in the sink, taking care of the chipped edges.

Silence reigns in the small kitchen. Grantaire rests his elbows on the counter.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you, Grantaire,”

“Really?” Grantaire feels his resolve weakening. “I couldn’t tell,”

Enjolras’ mouth curves, and Grantaire pretends not to notice when he covers his mouth with his sleeve.

“In all honesty,” Enjolras pulls out his sleek phone. “I do need your help,”

Enjolras leans over, turning the screen towards Grantaire. What looks like an address has been hastily typed on a contact, with a small _‘F’_ for a name.

“Who is this?”

Enjolras looks excited, and unthinkingly he squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’m not sure, exactly, but I got a text message yesterday, after you left. This person, they have information on the hate crime. They want to meet me at their condo,”

“That doesn’t sound very safe,” Grantaire tries not to remember the horror of unknown buildings and the concrete jungle of an old town.

Fear could not be more foreign to Enjolras, who simply smiles. “That’s why I’m bringing you along,”

“As a bodyguard?”

“No,” Enjolras spares a glance at the bones peeking shyly out of Grantaire’s skin. “You’re good at conversation,”

Grantaire is not used to compliments thrown so carelessly about. He scoops up Enjolras’ words and locks them tight, away from places his mind would wander.

Enjolras doesn’t notice. “Even Combeferre likes you,”

“Oh, of course. Just what I wanted, the approval of a college student,” Grantaire can’t help but poke fun.

Enjolras sighs, but the slight grin doesn’t leave his face. “Will you come, then?”

For the second time today, Grantaire finds himself unable to refuse Enjolras.

.

Old neighbourhoods crowd the university like ducklings. Small bungalows share yard space with large, newly renovated mansions, all teetering on the edge of the river valley. As Grantaire walks up the slabs of concrete, he watches the disrepair around him, a constant flux.Finally, after an arduous hike, Enjolras finds the building. Fire truck red, the condominium is in a better state than its companions. Aside from creaking steps, Grantaire could have sworn the house was brand new.

Enjolras raps on the door sharply, twice, before backing away and searching for a doorbell. Footsteps clamor from the opposite end, and Grantaire sees shadows against the thick glass. The heavy lock clicks once.

Grantaire isn’t sure what to expect. Enjolras straightens his back, hands folded in front. He looks like a Jehovah’s Witness.

“Hello, my name is Enjolras and-”

“I know who you are,” interrupts the soft voice. “I messaged you for a reason,” Concealed by a hoodie, Grantaire squints to find features in the dying sunlight.

“Could we have your name?” Grantaire tries to make his voice as pleasing as possible. The figure takes off their hood.

“Please call me Feuilly,” they say. Dark haired and tan, they hover near the door frame.

Feuilly points to Marius, with his camera propped on his right shoulder. “Will he be filming?”

“We don’t film unless we have absolute permission,” says Grantaire. Marius lowers his camera wordlessly.

Feuilly manages a small smile. “Do come in,” they say.

Grantaire toes off his shoes, and the trio walk into the small building.The walls are sparse, still egg white with small paintings hanging. A fern stands in the corner, and a small couch faces the three tiny windows.An older man lounges on the couch, tie loosened. He is nondescript, really, with grey slacks and polished black boots. A grey beard clings to the edges of his soft jaw and chin.

 “Professor Lamarque?” Enjolras balks, looking uncertain for once.

“Enjolras,” greets Lamarque. “It’s nice to see you,”

Grantaire feels as confused as Marius looks, so he steps back. Feuilly, however, wastes no time in pushing them both towards his superior.

“Pleasure to meet you, Grantaire,” Lamarque shakes his hand with a firm grip. Marius, as well, nearly has his bones crushed by the man.

“I’m glad you all could make it,” Lamarque claps his hands together. “We have a lot of work to do,”

Lamarque’s eyes contain a quiet fire, an unspeakable strength. Grantaire could not leave even if he wanted to.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I'd like to apologize for the long time it took to update, but I had planned on Wednesday and school work had just piled up so much I had to put this chapter off. 
> 
> Lots of dialogue in this chapter... but dialogue is where Grantaire and Enjolras really excel so, whatever.  
> Also I don't wanna give anything away but Feuilly's pronouns will be (they/them). Also, the plot is progressing. Nice.


	4. elephant's graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly's testimonial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: graphic depictions of violence and transphobia.

.

“First order of business,” Lamarque claps his hands. The small group settles around him. “We have some new additions to our team,” He nods his head to where Enjolras and Grantaire hover awkwardly by the couch.

“Enjolras, would you like to say a few words?”

“I-” the young man looks lost for words. Grantaire has never seen him spit anything but fire when he speaks. It’s terrifying.

“I’m quite humbled to be here,” says Enjolras, with a precarious smile on his lips. “All my life I’ve been wanting to make a difference, but my own ignorance has held me back. I’m glad you guys have reached out to me,”

“’We believe in your abilities, Enjolras,” Feuilly exclaims.

“And we believe in you,” says Lamarque.

That persistent ache in his chest, it returns with a vigour. Grantaire couldn’t possibly respond to Enjolras’ triumphant huff.

Lamarque cocks his head towards Marius. “Introduce yourself, my boy,”

Marius does not flush or shy away. Somehow, Lamarque’s firm kindness has inspired courage in the youth.

“Well, I am Marius Pontmercy, and I am the camera man,”

“You’re much more than that!” Grantaire finds himself blurting out. Now it’s his turn to blush. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short, Marius,”

“Indeed,” Lamarque smiles. “When we forget our worth, it is much easier for others to forget too,”

God, Grantaire can’t handle all this warmth and hope. It reminds him of the time he watched _Kung Fu Panda_ completely stoned, and cried when Master Oogway died.

“I believe you haven’t introduced yourself yet, Grantaire,”

Lamarque smiles encouragingly. Well, it’s no time like the present to destroy any notion that he is here in this American city for any noble reasons whatsoever.

“ _Bonjour_ , I am Grantaire the filmmaker and I’ve come here so I can pay my rent,”

Threads of doubt begin to line Feuilly’s face. The atmosphere starts to tense up, shift away from the friendly clarity of before. Lamarque, however, is unfazed.

“Dean Javert has offered to pay you, Grantaire. But you’ve come to us out of your own accord, is that not right?”

Grantaire glances at all the smiling faces, from Enjolras to Feuilly to Lamarque himself, all incredibly, stupidly hopeful. He cannot find it in himself to break them.

“I suppose,” he sighs, and Marius cheers as they all silently accept him back, once again, to their hopeful dreams.

.

After the initial meet and greet, Lamarque has poured tea for everyone. They all sit in a small circle, steam curling around as Feuilly contemplates sharing his story.

Enjolras whispers to Lamarque. “What is the purpose of this exercise, Professor? I mean, apart from initial catharsis, couldn’t these people find support elsewhere, like from a therapist?”

Lamarque reprimands him. “This _is_ therapy, Enjolras. Don’t forget many of us cannot afford a therapist, or that we are simply denied it altogether,”

“Think of it as a truth and reconciliation, of sorts,” pipes up a voice from the back.

Grantaire snorts. “I see truth, but where’s the reconciliation? Did it ask for a rain cheque and a possible cover up?”

Lamarque casts a sharp glance in his direction. “Quiet down, everyone. Feuilly, whenever you’re ready,”

A hush falls over the small group, as Feuilly wipes his palms on his pants. The small _ping_ of the video camera reminds everyone that Marius is recording, silently, in the back.

“I was around eight years old, when life started changing. I mean, life is always changing, but something upset the childish flux I was used to. I’m sure we’ve all heard this a million times before, how dresses didn’t fit as well as tuxedos, how my hair would look better chopped up than long,”

Feuilly takes a deep breath, and Lamarque sends a reassuring smile his way. Grantaire is transfixed, unable to take his eyes off the constant clockwork of Feuilly, the twitch of hands and body.

“When I turned twelve, breasts became cumbersome. I used to push them down, hide them, and I honestly wondered if I wished on enough stars, someone would take notice and fix me. It’s a horrifying experience, you know, when you realize your body is not matched up with your mind.

But the worst part was when my mother called me pretty or beautiful or lovely, I knew she didn’t mean it. The way she said it, so forceful and insistent. She only said those to remind me of the box I was in, the box we call gender binary.

I took the cowardly way out, you know. I lied about everything, called myself a girl and wore dresses and acted the way my mother wanted me to. How could I refuse? We were poor. Our little brownstone barely had enough room for the two of us, never mind my dysphoria and confusion. I settled for baggy shirts and short hair, and those were small victories I relished.

When I came here, to Vinton, the doors opened slowly but surely. I found Professor Lamarque, I found this group, and I truly believed I found myself here,”

Feuilly laughs, a small gasp of a thing, more air than voice. “God, that was cheesy as fuck, wasn’t it?”

“Like nachos,” Grantaire finds himself saying. “But don’t stop,”

Feuilly smiles at his horrific joke. He tucks a strand of hair behind his hair, and begins to speak once more.

“Everything was going quite well, you know. I kept my head down, had a few friends. But then I messed up. My roommate was basically a ghost, I guess. She was never there, so I became careless. I left my things lying around. One day she found my binder, and-”

Feuilly’s voice cracks, a horrible sound, like glass shattering. He bites his lips, and Grantaire sees a small trickle of blood flow freely before Feuilly wipes it away.

“She found my binder. And God, it was like someone flipped a switch. I tried lying and told her it was my girlfriend’s, but she knew no girl wore a bra like that. She went berserk, you know. Accused me of being a liar, a freak, a tranny.

I remember what she said, so clearly. _You’re a freak_ , _Feuilly, and my boys will fuck you up._ She told her boyfriend and all his friends. Next thing I know they’ve got me in a corner, four big basketball players. They hit me and beat me, and I expected that. I thought it was over.

But then, one of them hung back. I recognized him as Ashley’s boyfriend. He wanted a bit more. So he took my binder, my shield and armor, and he ripped it into small strings. And then, he marched up to the flag pole and he tied me up and left me. He fucking left me, naked and tied up on a flag pole, for seven hours until someone saw and called the police,”

 “I thought Feuilly was dead, at first,” says Lamarque, voice flat. “I checked his pulse seven times,”

 _Ping._ Marius turns off the video camera. The room is not silent, strangely, but filled to the brim with hushed sobs. Enjolras appears to be still, but upon closer inspection he is vibrating, the proton of shock as he sits unmovable on the laminate floor.

A thick stone lodges in Grantaire’s throat, made of regret and anger and fear, such colourful emotions burgeoning inside his drab self. Feuilly sits alone on his stool, dying sunlight casting irregular shapes upon his cheek. Grantaire can see the galaxies of bruises, still expanding endlessly on Feuilly’s skin.

He has known sadness. Grantaire could call himself an expert on it. The dull ache of fear, of crushing regret, they all tasted so good paired with a little wine. But now, it is so difficult to wash away the emotions Feuilly has created within him.

This gathering, this circle of despair and hope, takes him back to the Serengeti of all places. When Grantaire, dragging along Marius, had stumbled upon large white bones in a drunken stupor. How they sat, quietly, as each gentle beast paid their respects and ambled on, trunks swung low and regretful. The smell of decomposition, the buzz of flies, Grantaire wanted to puke.

Marius hadn’t recorded it.

Now, Feuilly sits like a carcass, eyes filmy with tears. Reliving something that should have never happened. No one deserves such overwhelming despair. Legs shaky, Grantaire rises, drunk on the memory of the graveyard.

As he moves, he catches Enjolras’ eye, for once not out of anger or frustration. As the young boy watches him, Grantaire is emboldened.

“You deserve justice,” he says, voice hard as a rock.

How uncharacteristic of him, of drunkard Grantaire, to want something so desperately for another person. Lamarque nods, as if all at once he has digested the whole of Grantaire, picked his flaws from his bone, and accepted him.

“Do you really believe that?” says Feuilly, still small and dying. “Do you believe such a thing?”

Grantaire’s heart begs to leave from its cage. For once, he grants the wish of his dearest organ.

 Grantaire nods. “I do. I truly believe, Feuilly,”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmfao im back. after a month. 
> 
> Lamarque is Master Oogway. This is fact.

**Author's Note:**

> I mainly wrote this fic because I was tired of the same tropes in the Les Mis fandom. I mean, how many times are Les Amis completely white in a modern setting. POC struggles are today's struggles, and ignoring them just because it's easier is probably what Hugo didn't want. 
> 
> That being said, I myself am a POC. Many characters will be POC, or they will have sexuality outside the usual gay/bi/straight continuum. There will be talk of transphobia and racism, and corruption of educational institutions. All these issues are /real/ and need to be discussed. Why not hand in hand with enjoying stories about your favourite characters. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. The notes and the actual story. Thanks.


End file.
